


let this whole town hear your knuckles crack

by placentalmammal



Category: Friends at the Table (Podcast)
Genre: Aftercare, Bloodplay, Daddy Issues, Dom/sub, F/M, Hair-pulling, Hurt/Comfort, Knifeplay, Military Uniforms, Stepping, Subdrop, Trans Male Character, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-11
Updated: 2018-07-11
Packaged: 2019-06-09 01:09:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15256098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/placentalmammal/pseuds/placentalmammal
Summary: Claret Holiday tops Maelgwyn until he cries. Explicit, but no pants come off. Read the author's note for more detailed content warnings.





	let this whole town hear your knuckles crack

**Author's Note:**

> Trans Maelgwyn. He is a sad boy, and Claret is going to top his daddy issues out of him. There is crying during sex, but also a lot of fond aftercare. Bloodplay isn't really safe or sane, and you should definitely not do it in real life no matter how sexy the vampire is.
> 
> Also I know Hieron vampires don't drink blood or have any association with it, really. Just work with me, here.
> 
> Title from [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dRTqDG9Mo18), don't @ me

She has him on his knees in his tent, shirtless, with his wrists bound behind his back and his blonde hair plastered to his forehead with sweat. It has been a long day of drills and sparring matches and his mind just won't _stop_. He is caught in his usual loop: mentally rehearsing the day's exercises, rerunning the drills, dissecting his own performance. Did he stumble, did he falter, did he flinch? What missteps did he make, and how might he correct them before his father takes notice--

Without warning, Claret fists her hand in his hair and _yanks_ and his mind goes blissfully, blessedly, beautifully blank.

She is standing upright, fully dressed, circling him like a shark in rough seas. Her full lips are set in a sneer, but there is laughter in her black eyes, a spark of callous amusement dancing behind her mask of indifference.

"You like this, Prince," she says, stalking the perimeter of the cramped space so he has to turn his head to keep her in his field of vision. "You enjoy submission."

"Yes," he says, breathless, " _yes--_ "

"It's all you're good for," she snarls, and she plants her boot on his thigh, dangerously close to his arousal. Maelgwyn whimpers, and she grinds her heel into his flesh, bright sparks of pain cutting through his clouded thoughts. His cock aches, his cunt throbs, his nipples stand out in the cold evening air. Every part of him: sensitive and aching and ready to be used.

Every part of her: high and solitary and most stern.

Claret runs her fingers across his jaw and down the long line of his throat. For a moment, she rests the weight of her palm on his neck, restricting his airflow just a _little_ bit and he bites back a whine.

She laughs, bright and cruel. "Oh Maelgwyn," she coos, and she bends to draw a knife out of her high-heeled boot. "You're a ruin, love."

The knife is a bright spark of steel in her hand, the light of the shuttered lamp glinting off the blade. It's sharp enough to break skin but too small to do anything but, and she uses it only for him. The sight of it excites him. He sucks in a huge breath, anticipation coursing through him like adrenaline. It warms his belly, sets his blood on fire. His blush spreads like sedition, creeping down from his cheeks to his bare chest to his clothed thighs, where her boot heel is still digging into him, a blunt little dagger twin to the blade she presses to his throat.

"Maelgwyn," she says, and his name drips from her lips like honey from the comb. "Maelgwyn, Maelgwyn, sweet boy, brilliant boy, _tell me what you want_ \--"

His voice is a hoarse, broken thing, barely louder than a whisper. "Use me," he sobs, "please, hurt me, I don't want to think, I don't want to feel--"

When she touches his hair, she is almost gentle. She says something soothing as she tips his head back, baring his neck. She touches the point of her knife to the hollow of his throat and Maelgwyn gasps and shudders in her grasp, his face burning.

Claret is methodical, almost clinical in her approach. She cuts him shallowly across the chest, bright stinging lines of white-hot pain. He's shaking in her grasp, sweat rolling down his throat and chest to drip into the cuts, almost unbearably painful. Desperate for her approval, he endures it as best he can, tendons standing out in his throat, teeth digging into the flesh of his bottom lip.

She sets the knife down beside her lantern, lays it on a table where he can still _see_ it. The silver blade is red with his blood and he swoons, suddenly grateful for Claret's hand, still fisted in his hair and keeping him roughly upright.

Once again speaking softly, she strokes his cheek with her free hand. Her touch is blessedly cool, and he turns unthinkingly toward it, seeking comfort. In answer, she pulls her hand away and before he can register its absence, she presses her thumb against the cuts she's opened up, smearing blood across his chest. He keens, arching forward into her touch, straining against the ropes tied 'round his wrists.

"Oh Maelgwyn," she sighs, and his name from her lips is all the sweeter for the repetition. "You can be better than that, can't you?"

Thighs shaking, chest heaving, he forces himself into stillness. He looks up at her through his long, blonde lashes, searching her face for any sign of approval. Noiseless, his mouth forms her names, and then he is babbling his praise, begging her to use him, to hurt him, to make him take it and tell him he's been good--

She picks up the knife again and he cries out, but then she turns him roughly around and cuts through his bindings. His arms go around her, unthinking, and she half-drags, half-carries him toward the bed. She flops down on it and pulls him down on top of her, carding her fingers through his golden hair.

"Sweet boy," she murmurs, lips brushing the shell of his ear, "sweet prince, hush, it's alright."

He curls his body around hers and buries his face in her chest. He isn't crying -- he doesn't _think_ he's crying, at any rate -- but he's shaking and she is so steady underneath him. One of her cool hands comes up to cradle his head, and the other smooths over his shoulders to rub comfort into his back. "You're alright," she says, "you're alright Maelgwyn. You've done so well."

She holds him until he stops shaking and then she drags her thumb gently across his cheekbone, collecting moisture.

"Your mascara's running," she says, gently, and she produces a clean handkerchief -- starched white linen, immaculate even on the front lines, with an embroidered border of violets and calla lilies -- from within her blouse coat and offers it to him.

Face burning, he accepts and scrubs furiously at his eyes. The linen comes away black and smeary, crumpled in his fist, and he blows his nose before trying to hand it back to her. She waves him away, and there's a quirk to her brow, something in her eyes that he can't quite read.

"Keep it," she says, and again, an undercurrent of _something_ in her voice. "For your collection."

"I don't collect handkerchiefs," he says, confused.

Claret rolls her eyes. "Sweet boy," she says again, sardonically, and she flicks his earlobe. "Are you feeling better?"

He scowls at her, but resists sticking his tongue out. "I am," he says, and he _is_. His hands shake as he shoves the dirty square of linen into his pocket -- someone will launder it for him, later -- but his mind is clearer. She's helped him to break the loop, freeing him from his fixations. And Maelgwyn is never so calm as he pretends to be, but he is calmer now. Centered. Breathing regularly, thinking clearly.

He nods, squaring his jaw. "Thank you lieutenant," he says, a little stiffly.

Claret softens her eye roll with a smile, flashing her preternaturally long canines at him. "My Prince." Her bow is perfunctory but not insincere, and then she is gone and he is alone. Exhaustion takes him, and he drops off to sleep, his mind blissfully, blessedly, beautifully blank.


End file.
